


to be born of gold

by Ecipoe



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:33:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26553640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ecipoe/pseuds/Ecipoe
Summary: The daughter of Elgar’nan is sent to the Inquisition with one job, acquire their forces for the Dales. Barring that, destroy any trace of the traitorous god, Fen’harel.
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy! This is a work in progress but it’s getting lengthy so I’m gonna make it a chapter by chapter thing so you don’t have to re-read to get to updates! Thank you!

Atisha does not think highly of Skyhold. It is one of her estranged Uncle’s sacred places, and the wards here are unkind to her. Even without the magic woven in stone, the building is in disarray. It is a mess. The support of wood are rotted out. Wild animals have burrowed into the once rich earth, and over time, shifted stone. This has created instabilities among the lower levels. The once beautiful bathhouse below the rotunda has collapsed in, but the sound of trickling springs can still be heard. Atisha is not impressed but she is Daughter of the Sun, and if her father wants her to earn these people’s loyalty she will. 

Anything to keep her family alive and safe.

It is whispered in the Houses of the Gods that dear uncle Fen’harel made the most destructive of mistakes once. The story goes like this. Once, long ago, all the gods ruled all the world and split it between them fairly like a cut pie. And often, the lords and ladies of the heavens would swap pieces for gain or loss, trading land and the people on it with ease and grace. The gods lived eternally and were at peace and the people prospered. But Fen’harel grew attached to his piece. He would not trade with any of the other of the evanuris, going as far as to call their trade vile. But what is vile about giving Sylaise grasp of land that has become infertile? She alone could repair the soil. Or, to give crumbling cities to Jun to be repaired. The gods did not understand Fen’harel’s grasp on his land. When plague struck his people, he did not allow Mythal to ease them. When the rains were thick and cold, he did not give Elgar’nan rights to bring them light. It is said his people cried out to the gods, but they could not hear them through the thick magic of Fen’harel.

They say one day, the twins Falon’din and Dirthamen went to Fen’harel’s lands and saw with great sorrow that he had been stealing from the other gods. And with grief they went to him and pleaded with the Wolf to see reason and to join them in making the world fair and prosperous. And the Wolf told them that with his great teeth he would cut away anything he wanted, he would take land and people and they could not stop him. He would swallow all of Elvhenan and the stars beyond, and only that was fair, he told them.

And so the gods sought a way to help their brother see reason. But his pride was too thick a wall to breach, and all at once, Fen’harel, wove wicked magic and took away the glittering empire they had built, and made the gods mortal. 

It is a terrible tale. Atisha always hated the story of Uncle Fen’harel.

So, when her father told her that the magic of the Wolf had chosen a prophetess, Atisha was, like any good child of the evanuris, concerned. She was ordered to go to this prophetess, this Inquisitor, who was one of the common people and to bring her to the Sun’s light. And barring that, to take their troops by any means necessary. 

The wolf will stop at nothing until his jaws have wrapped around the world itself. 

Atisha will not allow an uncle she has never met to destroy her family. 

They send spies to the Inquisitor and build dossiers. Atisha is taught and tested and drilled on the main players. It is her advisor, Varien, who proposes the idea first. The Inquisitor is marked by the Wolf, and therefore cannot be relied on to see reason. But men are ruled by their hearts, not their leaders. Varien proposed that the best way to ensure the Wolf’s influence does not see armies march, it to control that army. And what better way than to rule the heart of the man leading them?

Atisha hates the idea immediately. 

Elgar’nan, for all his teachings of the evil of mortal men, considers it. More than considers it. He writes to the Inquisition personally to inquire as to the prowess of their commander. The Inquisition sends back a very beautifully written report of all the Commander’s battle experience and leadership. It is professional and sealed, and smells oddly like spiced tea. That becomes the primary dossier for Atisha to study. She learns everything she can about this Commander from it. He is Fereldan from a little nowhere town that doesn’t even grace a map. An ex-Templar. The man is renowned for his leadership in Kirkwall, and infamous for surviving the fall of Kinloch hold. From what their spies learn, he was a good Templar. Damn good at his job. Promoted to Knight-Captain within a year. Whatever that means. 

Atisha sees nothing to impress her in the papers. So the man was good at hunting pitiful children who happened to have sparkling fingertips, so what? Anyone can hunt a confused frightened child. You don’t need five years of training for it. She is less and less impressed by these humans the more she reads about them.

Varien proposes next to send assassins. Disguise them as Qun, send them after this Inquisitor, then Atisha can sweep in and offer an alliance of the Eight of the Dales. The idea is dismissed immediately. If this woman, this Nehris Lavellan, was one of the wolf’s she would smell the lie. They would be out before they were even in. 

So, Elgar’nan decides that Varien’s first plan is a good one. Atisha disagrees, but if it keeps this world from being consumed, she supposes she will attempt to at the very least befriend this so called Commander.

But she will hate every minute of it. 

The Inquisitor is too important to meet with Atisha, so instead, she is introduced to the Inquisitor’s officials.

The first time she meets the Commander is a formality. Their Ambassador, the source of the spiced tea scent Atisha has learned, introduces her as politely as possible. “I would like to introduce you to Princes Atisha Sabrae of the Sun Citadel, Commander.” 

Atisha notes a few things about the man immediately. He holds himself too stiffly. The way a man with little confidence in his ability would. There’s a scar on his lip, and she imagines he must be quite charming for someone to leave such a nasty mark on him. The purple under his eyes tells her all she needs to know about his sleep patterns. But he is polite enough, voice pleasant enough, not unsightly to look at. The man, like her, bears the mark of the sun. Golden eyes. Her are sharper, more dandelion. His are more like amber mead. But among her people they would call him sun-born as well. It’s a nice thought. They would both be called the same thing for their eyes. Maybe a common thread. She flashes him the most dazzling smile she can muster, tries to not watch the wind tug on one of his curls, and waits for his reply. 

“It’s an honor to have you with us.”

With that one sentence he won her over immediately. No honorifics. No drawn out theatrics. Even his words felt strained and tired, like he was fed up with dignitaries. This was a man unafraid to show his disinterest, even a he forced a polite tone. A practical man. She would have to get a look at his office to be sure, but Atisha had a wonderful creeping suspicion he was obsessively organized. Sun-born indeed. 

“It is an honor to stand among men and women of such caliber.” She had replied, level and lovely. Atisha was raised in the Citadel Spire, and she was excellent at being the perfect lady. Better at throwing fire or lightning, but quite proficient with manners as well. Certainly, words could damage men just as much. She’d learned that young when the Dusk Warriors would give her gifts and call her sweet names. Men were easy to hurt with just words.

He had stifled a snort and nodded. 

“Right. Well, I’ve work to do. I’m sure we will have time to talk later,” He freezes, cheeks dusting just a bit pink and gauntlet floating up to squeeze the back of his neck, “I’m afraid I’m at a loss as to what to call you.”

“Cullen!” Their lady ambassador had scolded, before turning to Atisha. “My apologies, your highness. You’ll have to excuse our Commander. He spends more time with soldiers than he does lords and ladies.”

“Not at all,” Atisha had said, never moving her eyes from him. “I take no offense. He and I have that in common. Besides, I’m afraid among my people titles like ‘highness’ do not exist. I am an ‘elgara’len’, a divine child, or a First if it pleases you.”

An answer tailored to please the Commander and the Ambassador and it had worked well. 

-

The second time Atisha speaks to the Commander is a week later in the dining hall. It was the first time she had seen him attend a meal. The candlelight had bounced off his golden curls just so when he leaned down to shovel stew into his mouth. He ate like a soldier. Quick, greedy spoonfuls barely chewed, more swallowed. It wasn’t eating designed for proper company. It was the way a hungry man ate. A man who wears armor like he does must certainly need to eat, and he is no exception. Observing him, she couldn’t help but smile. It reminded her of her home in the Citadel Spire. Her father was a god of war, after all, and she was familiar with hungry soldiers. The Commander had polished off his bowl of stew in what seemed like heartbeats then took his bread just a bit slower. As if he was aware he had to chew that or he’d choke. 

“Long day of training I take it?”

Atisha had asked while using her bread to mop up some of the broth. Cullen’s head whipped up, eyes settling on her fast and nose pink from the warmth of the stew. For his part, he looked a little embarrassed, but hadn’t seen her come in. It was late, most everyone in the hall was a soldier save for her. Cullen cleared his throat, sat up straight, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“No longer than usual.” Came the oddly measured reply. “Do you often take your meal this late, Lady First?”

Atisha snorted at the addition of lady to her title and swallowed another spoonful of stew. He was challenging her with that question in a way. They hadn’t spoken between the two of them before, and it was bold of him to push aside pleasantries so quickly. 

“Are you looking for the official answer, or my answer?”

“Either will do I suppose.”

Atisha smiles, takes a sip of watered wine. 

“My father is the god of the sun and war. I grew up surrounded by soldiers and warriors. I could eat with the important people and suffer through silly conversation on my opinion on a woman’s feathered hat, or I could do what I’ve always done and eat with the people. Besides, watching you inhale a loaf of bread without chewing reminds me of home, Commander.”

If he wasn’t pink from the soup before, he was now. This time not from the soup. “Ah.” He manages to stammer out. She gives him a softer smile now, “I mean no offense.” Atisha murmurs. Cullen nods, curls bouncing. For a moment, she wonders if his hair was curly as a child. There are children with curls back home and when they toddle about the curls bounce and shine in the light and they have sweet chubby cheeks. Maybe this man was like that once. Though, she doubts it. 

Then whatever awkwardness the man felt is shoved away, and he folds his hands on the table. 

“I apologize for not having the time to speak to you sooner. I’ve been informed that your people will be providing some of said soldiers to the Inquisition. Perhaps we should meet in the morning to better discuss arrangements for those troops, as well as Inquisition training.”

Atisha laughs and the sound is like pealing bells. It is a bright beautiful sound that catches the attention of the troops in the hall, all eyes turn to the commander and the elven princess.

“Commander, you are a funny man indeed. We can meet tomorrow, yes. But I assure you, the Dusk Warriors need no training you could provide.”

-

The third time she speaks with the Commander the following morning, Atisha tries very hard not to insult him. But he keeps talking to her like she is a spoilt thing. Some pretty lap dog that grew up in silks and bathtubs of gold. And yes, she was privileged to those things. But her father made sure she knew the taste of dirt, and the feeling of someone’s heel on her throat, and how to hold a bow or a knife or a glaive. The glaive is her favorite. She is glittering morning sun, and the scorching heat of the desert.

“Our agents report your troops are a day’s ride from Skyhold. I am making arrangements to organize an elven only barrack for them, if only to ease the transition. I intend to meet them with a few of my Captains for initiation, and to guide them the rest of the way here.”

Atisha nods, considers how neat his desk is. The corner with his candle is a mass of wax. This man works hard.

“Excellent. I shall have preparations made and meet you at the bridge.” She tells him. 

Cullen looks puzzled at this. He caps his inkwell and tents his fingers. He considers her, eyes settling on the wall behind her.

“Lady First, I do appreciate the offer, but this is for soldiers and military training. It is no place for a woman of your standing to be traipsing about. The weather as well has been unforgiving of late. It will be muddy and cold. I can’t have you coming along and catching cold. Josephine would kill me should anything happen to you.”

Fire flares in her chest. She clenches her jaw and feels a muscle twitch on the side of her face. When she speaks, there are embers and sparks on her breath. Cullen stiffens, eyes hardening and snapping to that display of magic. Old habits die hard. If she were back home Varien would laugh and tell her how like her father she looks in her anger.

“Commander, I appreciate your willingness and consideration when it comes to discussing the troops I have promised you. But do not insult me. You did not get to lead your men by sitting and looking pretty. Although, I’m sure if they dressed you up nice they could make you just as pretty as you like. You got to lead them by bleeding for them. You got there by fighting and leading and showing you have what it takes and more. As did I. These are my people coming to die for your cause. I will meet them.”

Everything in her wants to ball her hand into a tight fist and hit him so and he has a twin scar running down his lip. Her father wants her to convince this man to let her help run his armies? He wants her to befriend him so that her word is influence enough. He wants her to convince this man to love her more than he cares for his cause. It’ll be tough to do that if she fries him in his pretty armor right here and now. Father has no idea the kind of man he sent her to bewitch.

Elgar’nan never met Cullen Rutherford. 

If he had, he would want to hit him too. And probably would. No definitely would. Hard. 

Cullen, for his part, has the decency to look a bit embarrassed. Very quickly, he shifts his stance.

“My apologies, I should remember you are our guest and ally. Please, Lady First, accompany me to meet the Dalish troops.”

She was going to whether he approved or not, truthfully. It does help that he can see reason. She considers that a point. One victory of Atisha, zero for Cullen.

-

Cullen has seen people fall to their knees and weep at the arrival of someone twice before in his life. That time was after the Qunari invasion in Kirkwall. When Hawke walked out of the Viscount’s keep with the blasted Qunari Invader’s head people fell to the ground and sobbed. He saw it again when Nehris took her first few steps after they recovered her from the snow. 

Seeing it now is different. 

Atisha dressed in gold and red and purple with metal armor as flexible as fabric dismounting from the Great War Hart is different. These elves her people sent. They look like they walked out of a story of Arlathan. They’re beautiful and well armored. When Atisha’s boots hit the ground, they all freeze before Cullen and the Inquisition soldiers and go quiet. Atisha had strode forward, looking like she was made of sunset hues, vallaslin sparkling gold, and addressed this crowd of warriors.

“An’dir’an atish’an, my friends. Welcome, to the Inquisition.”

Grown men and women fell to their knees with a resounding boom. The ground had shook. Then the sobbing. Atisha walked forward, hand placed on each one’s shoulder individually and she greeted all of them. ‘Welcome’. Cullen had never seen anything like it. He leads the armies of the faithful, but has never seen any army so dedicated. 

They were worshipping her.

Just like Andraste.

These elves were wailing, pulling their leader into embraces, kissing her gauntlets, pauldrons, cheeks. They surged around her like a sunset ocean and Cullen did not know what to do. These were the men and women sent to fight with the Inquisition and they were sobbing like children at the sight of their leader. He couldn’t process that.

Maybe half an hour went by before Atisha emerged from the throng, grinning, hair pulled loose by the hands of her people. All of which went silent and stiff and threw hands over their chests when she addressed Cullen.

“Commander, would you like to greet The People?”

He hoped it didn’t involve as much kissing for him to say welcome.

It didn’t.

-

Cullen is the first to admit he underestimated Atisha. The Inquisition has people throwing themselves into the ranks left and right. Nobles of all countries had been swearing aid and loyalty. Why should she be any different than these power thirsty animals of men? Then he sees her people’s love for her and that shakes him. But what convinces him is the length they go to. One man drug himself to the nearest camp, legs missing and arm broken, to give his final report before bleeding out. Dalish. Not Inquisition. Before the man had died, the report read, his final words were ‘I hope I do the First proud’.

Atisha had wept when she read the report. 

Cullen has never wept openly in public at a report of a dead soldier. But she cries for every one of them. She loves all her people. He doesn’t know how she has it in her. But she does. Atisha leads, and Atisha loves. It’s baffling. 

That aside, her combat skills leave no room to criticize. 

He has never been so wrong. This woman is a formidable force. A leader. A warrior. A mage. And, disconcertingly, she wants to spend all her spare time with him. He should be so special. At first he thinks it because her men are under his command. Insurance to guarantee her people are treated properly. But it extends beyond that. She starts bringing him cups of tea whenever a lyrium headache sets in. Cullen can’t figure out how she knows, but without fail anytime his temples throb, five minutes later there’s a cup of soothing tea on the edge of his desk.

Then there’s the flirting. At least he thinks it’s flirting. 

“Did you know, Commander, that in my home town you would be considered the epitome of beautiful if you weren’t human?” 

Atisha asks him one day as she brings him a cup of tea. The question startles him. His head is pounding and he isn’t sure if it’s a compliment entirely. He takes the tea into his hands, relishes in the smell. A blend she says she made just for him. Odd. No one does things like that for him once they find out what he’s done. He wonders if this too is her odd attempts to be around him more.

“How so?” He had inquired back. This woman made him curious. Too curious. He spends far too much time praying away his curiosity about her. 

“Your eyes, mostly. They’re a shade of gold, like autumn sunshine. Sun-born it’s called. I’m sun-born too, but a different color. But you have lovely eyes, it’s the first thing I noticed about you. Your hair does you credit as well. If it was better cared for the shine would be the envy of all I know.”

He hadn’t paid much mind to his hair these days. Back when he was younger, he spent much time with oils and creams to make it shine and hold it in place just so. But he was young then with silly childhood crushes. He has no time for that now. Although, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little flattered that she had noticed him. Even if the being human thing ruins his looks, apparently. 

“Your people spend a lot of time on their hair I take it?”

“Only the ones who don’t lock themselves in a tower all day befriending candles and ink pots.” She replies lightly.

His head is killing him, but it draws a bit of a smile out. He sips the tea, grateful for the honey she’s sweetened it with. He figures if she was here to poison him it would have been done ages ago. Besides, Atisha seems to be invested in the Inquisition. She settles down in a chair in the corner like she owns the place, like she always does. 

Cassandra had told him if he was lonely to get a cat.

He apparently got an elf instead. 

And he’s feeling a bit bold anyways after the compliment, so he turns to catch her attention.

“And are you of the same opinion as your people? About my appearance, that is.”

Something hard flashes in her eyes for a moment. Just a moment. He wonders if he imagined it. Atisha’s lips purse and she feigns being deep in consideration. He’s known this woman maybe two months, but he feels some comfortable talking with her. Playing with her. He doesn’t expect anything out of it other than to lighten the mood and keep him company. Cullen has no illusions. He knows what her status means.

“If you were of my blood I’d have proposed already.” She replies with a wicked grin all too seriously. He chokes on tea, sputtering liquid all over the reports he was reading through. Atisha is across the room in a heartbeat patting his back to help him clear his airway, laughing the whole time. “Creators, Cullen, I’m teasing, not trying to kill you. Breathe. Yes, yes, you’re very pretty and you know it now stop drowning and breathe.” It’s the most she’s every touched him outside of throwing him around in a sparring ring. 

He notes the feeling of magic weaving through him with every touch, followed by the lack of a headache. Atisha is gone before he can scold her for magic-ing him without asking.

-

Atisha avoids Inquisitor Nehris and Solas like the plague. Maybe it’s because they both left the Dales. Maybe not. Cullen doesn’t question it. Not his business.

Atisha is perched in her chair offering helpful insight on his reports when Nehris comes knocking. The Daughter of the Sun is up the ladder into the private area of his quarters before he even finishes shouting ‘come in’.

It is freezing up there.

Atisha notes that the blankets on his bed are covered in frost. The roof has fallen out. She shouldn’t care. Really. She’s here to win him over so when her father says jump this human will say how high. His sleeping conditions should mean nothing. As long as he is in good enough health, and he is if barely, she shouldn’t care. The man could be sleeping in a kennel and she shouldn’t feel anything.

But she does.

Her chest squeezes just so, and it is then that Atisha knows she is in trouble. She was supposed to be bewitching him. She lost the game. Atisha hasn’t lost at anything before in her life. But she looks at the ice trailing along his bedding and wants to sob. This poor man sleeps so little already. She doesn’t want to think about him shivering himself awake. The image saps what little resolve to not give into her emotions she has left.

His well-being should mean nothing beyond his use. 

But Creators, it’s cold up here and her heart aches. So when Nehris leaves, she climbs down and blinks back fat hot tears. 

Cullen has stood and is pacing, considering something Nehris has said. Atisha wasn’t even listening. She was too busy trying not to cry like a child. She still is. 

“It’s very cold up there.” She says blankly. He looks over his shoulder at her and shrugs. “It’s not too bad.” She feels bad distracting him, but this is important to her.

“We are atop a mountain in the snow.” Atisha points out. 

“So we are.” He replies. 

“I do not like that you sleep in the cold.” She finally admits, voice cracking only a little around the hot emotion swelling in her throat. Cullen turns quick and gives her a quizzical look. “Would it,” Atisha swallows, blinks tears back and takes a deep breath. Steady. Smooth. She tries to calm herself and finds that she cannot. “Would it bother you too greatly if I asked my people to repair the roof?”

Cullen stares at her dumbly.

“You’re worried about my roof because it is cold.” He says very slowly like he’s trying to understand. 

“I am worried about you because it is cold.” The roof be damned, she thinks. He is worth more to her than a roof.

Cullen blinks.

“There’s a spare room in my quarters for guests of my country. I’d give it to you for the duration of the repairs.” She offers gently.

“You want me to sleep in your quarters so that you can have my roof fixed? It’s just a roof. Truly, it is not an issue.”

“Mythal give me strength, there is frost on your pillow, Cullen!”

There is a heavy silence between them when she shouts. Like if either moves something bad is going to happen. Atisha sucks in a breath between her teeth and realizes she has failed to not cry when her eyes burn. She brings a hand up to wipe at her eyes. “There’s frost on your pillow.” Atisha repeats almost too quietly. Her mouth is bitter with sorrow.

Cullen rips a hand through his curls, takes a few steps forward, thinks better of it and steps back again. Atisha sniffles, rubs more tears off her cheeks. “I’ll see about getting it repaired.” Cullen finally says. “I appreciate your concern.” He adds a bit more gently when she peeks over her fingers at him. “Thank you” Atisha replies.

Then she remembers the Inquisitor came to see him and he has duties. So she excuses herself, stopping in the doorway for just a moment. 

“Cullen, against my better judgement, I care about you. Please, take better care of yourself.”

-

“Aneth ara.” Atisha greets Cullen easily as she passes him. He’s on his way to the Chantry like always, and she’s on her way to her quarters, like always. She hums an old Dalish tune along the way, flashes him a brilliant smile. He manages a little wave. 

And this time when the wind musses his curls she reaches out and tucks them behind his ear in passing and doesn’t realize she has done it until her wrist is in his hand. He looking at her, open mouthed eyes wide. His jaw works around silent sounds for a moment, then he slowly lowers and releases her hand. 

“Good evening.” He manages through his shock. Usually it is Cullen falling prey to the redness of his cheeks. This time it is Atisha wide eyed and pink cheeked. She pointedly focuses on his breastplate. “I am so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” She feels very hot all over and her heart is beating so hard her ribs must be bruising inside.

The wind in Skyhold’s gardens sings past them. The air is smokey with evening fires. Cullen gives her a soft, reassuring smile. The best he can muster. “It’s fine. On your way to turn in for the night?” Atisha nods. She’s sure he can hear her heart kicking like a stallion. How embarrassing. Cullen hums in response. “Care to join me?” He says, like he always does, with a gesture towards the little Chantry.

And like always, Atisha will say ‘not tonight’ and keep walking. 

So imagine her shock when her own voice betrays her reply, “I’d love to.”

They must both be shocked now. It is a difference in their routine. All because the wind snagged his hair, and she couldn’t keep her hands steady. So, they awkwardly shuffle into the Chantry, and he leads her to the pew in the front. She watches him methodically light all the candles, mouth murmuring prayers he’s memorized since he was a child. 

They sit.

It is quiet and awkward, and she is sure he is praying. 

He prays for a long time before he speaks louder.

“Why did you do it?” For a moment, she thinks he’s asking his Maker. But he’s turned his gaze towards her. She knows what he means.

“The wind, it was out of place, I don’t know. I’m sorry I shouldn’t have.”

What she doesn’t say is it was frightening how easy it was. It’s frightening how they walk so close on their evening routine that she could just reach out and touch his hair like that. It’s frightening how good and normal and natural it felt to do. 

“No,” he agrees gently, “you shouldn’t have. But you did.”

Atisha bows her head slightly, ashamed. It had been an accident. An innocent accident. Born of not so innocent blossoming thoughts and feelings she hasn’t managed to kill. Creators, does she want to though. Cullen laughs very softly, it’s more of a breath than a laugh. An exhale. A bright sigh. 

“You and your comments about my hair.” He says it far too fondly and her stomach likes it far too much. He should be mad. He should be upset she invaded his space and was so familiar with him. It would be easier if he was mad. Then he laughs a little louder this time, snorting, “First you call me pretty, then you invite me to sleep in your guest room, now you’re playing with my hair. If I didn’t know better I’d say you’re trying to court me.”

If she was pink before she’s blood red now. He graces her with an absolutely dazzling smile. Atisha tries not to think about how her pulse quickens at the way his eyes crinkle. Sylaise, have mercy. This human is going to ruin everything she ever held dear and she would let him. She’s been doing lots of things against her judgement lately. Saying things. Implying things. It’s almost as if she wants him to burn her world down. 

“And apparently failing too.” She replies. She means for it to be light, playful, a joke. But is does not come out a joke. It comes out far too honest and deep and laced with want. Atisha had been so proud of her training, her ability to mask herself. This man ripped all of that away with just a smile. 

She’s been outplayed and didn’t know she was playing. 

Cullen swallows audibly next to her. The leather of his gloves creaks in protest as he tightens his hands. 

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me today. I keep doing things I shouldn’t. I’ll leave, give you some privacy with your god.” She immediately scrambles when he doesn’t say anything back. The only reason he wouldn’t say anything back is if she overstepped. By Jun, she overstepped. 

“I’d like for you to stay, if you want to. I enjoy your company.” He says very, very low. Almost silent. 

So she stays, and the Commander takes her hand, and they are very quiet in the candlelight of the Chantry for a very long time. Everything in Atisha is trying to squirm out of her skin and hide. Of course he was just teasing. She’s a mage, and with his history. Creators know what he thinks of her. Not to mention how she’s all limbs and tattooed and so different with different words and gods. 

“For a very long time I came here to pray. Then you came to the Inquisition, and so there was another reason for me to find my way to the Chantry.” Cullen whispers, because anything above a whisper will crack his voice. “And I thought if ever there was someone out of reach, it was a Dalish Princess. I should be right, Atisha. You know this. I’m no noble. I suspect even the highest noble wouldn’t qualify among your people even. What am I supposed to do with this?”

Oh, she thinks. Of course he saw it that way. She was unreachable to him, by virtue of her blood. Royalty. She squeezes his hand. 

“What do you want to do?” Atisha asks, because he hasn’t told her and she needs to know. 

“Too much.” He all but growls back, eyes fixed on the statue of Andraste. “You have not made my life easy, Atisha. And touching me like that? Like it’s so easy to just step over that line. You do not make it easy to be a good man.” The unspoken, ‘I want to be a good man’ hangs in the air like a hymn. 

Atisha wonders if their beloved Andraste ever felt below her godly lover. Did she ever stop and think she was unworthy? Her mouth is dry, throat dry, hand clasping to him like it’s the only thing keeping breath in her lungs. Emotions are hard. Atisha does not like that he has made her feel this way. It was supposed to be an easy job. She wasn’t supposed to want him. 

She tries very hard to be brave. Atisha is very afraid of this man rejecting her. She is very afraid of him telling her to never enter his office, or make him laugh, or spar with him again. That frightens her. Atisha pushes anyways.

“It could be that easy.” Atisha breathes.

Cullen laughs and it is harsh and beautiful, ripped from his throat. 

“Cullen, it can be that easy.” She repeats, raises her free hand to tug gently on one of his curls. He snaps his eyes over to her. Creators, he’s beautiful. Sun-born amber eyes glimmering in the candlelight, lips tugging up in the corner just so. He’s trying to look very stern and failing. “See.” She says. “Easy.”

“Nothing about that is easy.” Cullen tells her, hand shaking in hers. She slowly tugs his hand up, very carefully leans towards their hands. She doesn’t want to spook him, but has a point to prove. His entire body goes steel still when her lips brush the knuckle of his glove. She looks up at him through her lashes. “Maker.” He breathes low and soft. “You shouldn’t. You’re a lady. It’s not,” He stammers, trailing off. 

“Cullen, I am going to make this very clear,” Atisha straightens. She reaches her hand out, ghosts her fingers dangerously close to his cheek. Never touching, but tracing close enough that she could. He could tilt his head just so and her hand would be there. “I care for you. I admire you. And I would be lying if I said I did not want you. You know that, I know that. But I will not push you, and I will not beg. Even if I want to. I am not going to ask you to make a choice, not now, not ever. If you ever want more, though, you know where you can find me.” 

Even though it’s the hardest thing she’s ever done, Atisha stands and walks out of that Chantry. 

Everything in her wants to turn around and beg him to go with her.

The children of gods do not beg.

-

It is a week or so over a month before Cullen sees Atisha again. He still gets daily deliveries of herbal tea for headaches sent by his own men to his desk alongside a jar of honey. He just assumes she’s avoiding him. Rightfully so. The poor woman told him to his face she wanted him and he said nothing. He doesn’t blame her at all. When he makes what he hopes are subtle inquiries as to Atisha, Josephine just looks at him like he’s an idiot and says she is working.

Working on what?

It is little over a month before one of his men has the stones to tell him Atisha hasn’t been in Skyhold the whole time. 

How could he have missed that? 

Between his own confusing emotions, lyrium pains, and his work he somehow missed it. He damn well wants to be sure he doesn’t miss anything else. Cullen knows he’s slipping. Knows it because how could he miss that woman of all people leaving? 

When Atisha returns to Skyhold, he meets her at the gate. 

Atisha in all her regalia on that absolute beast of a War Hart she rides trots through the gates of Skyhold like she’s been doing it for years. Her hair is carefully coiled with a kind of precision reserved for the highest of nobility. Sparking jewels and clips of gold woven throughout her flame red locks to keep them pinned in place. The silky sheen of her midnight purple cloak catches the sun and shimmers like magic on a hot day. Atisha looks everything like the royalty she is, except for the darkness nestled under her eyes and the way her lips are drawn flat. She’s travel worn and something about the way she holds her shoulders suggests a new weight on them. Atisha is not forthcoming with what has happened, only where she has been. She went home. Was summoned back to her country for reasons she cannot, or maybe will not, tell him. 

When she sees him she smiles a sad little smile.

That should not sting. 

“Aneth ara.” Atisha had greeted him so comfortably it made his fingers twitch with the urge to help her off her mount. And so he did. She had slipped her hand into his like it was the most familiar thing in the world, let him shoulder her weight, and dismounted. “Welcome back.” Cullen had told her and he had meant it. “It is good to be back.” She had replied, and it rang hollow.

Atisha is distant, distracted. She looks around Skyhold like she isn’t really seeing it. Looks at the sky like it isn’t really there. Her entire body is taut and her movements stiff as she guides her mount towards the stables. Cullen finds himself following. 

“How was your journey?”

“Long.”

Something had happened to do this to her. The part of him that will always be a nineteen year old boy wants to dig deep and find what wounded her. Everything else in him knows better. He would want her to respect his boundaries. She will tell him when she’s ready. 

If she’s ever ready. 

“Could I have the reports on my men I’ve missed delivered to my quarters? I must ensure they are well.”

“I’ll have them sent over.”

“Thank you.”

She turns her steed over to Dennet’s men. Cullen wants to say something, anything. He does not find the words. She turns on her heel sharply and begins the march to her quarters. Her cloak flutters audibly in the autumn wind. Cullen does not know why he notices this, but he does. He watches the purple red of it dance as she walks away from him. Some kind of butterfly or bird maybe. It reminds him of spring in the mountains where he grew up. 

“Lady First,” 

His voice does not carry. His hesitation mutes the volume with which he speaks. If she hears him, there is no indication, just the flutter of her cloak in the wind as she walks away from him.

“Atisha, wait.”

And his feet are moving before he knows it. He takes the stairs three at a time and catches her at the top of the flight. His hand finds her wrist under the cloak, and she turns to look at him, dandelion eyes hot and bloodshot and hard with something he cannot understand. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?” Cullen asks, mouth dry. She looks through him. The look of a woman who has seen too much. He knows that look well. He saw that man in the looking glass every time he peeked for more years than he know what to do with. “I hadn’t planned to go. It was an emergency.” She tells him very quietly. 

A lot of things flash through his head. Things that he would consider urgent. Maybe a family member fell ill, or there was a possession, or someone was killed. The look on her face is that of hard grief. Acceptance, but grief. Something had happened to call her home so suddenly. She sighs, looks up at the sky and blinks back the tears threatening to consume her again, and continues walking. He is still attached to her wrist, and so he follows her. 

“His name was Varien.” She says when Cullen takes to her side instead of trailing behind her. “He was my hahren. An elder of my family. Like a grandfather to me.” Was. Cullen focuses on that word. Her grandfather, or the man she regarded as such, is now past tense. He lets her work the words through her grief. They walk through the doors to the garden. The scent of dying leaves is rich and crisp, and comforting. “He was killed. Political enemies. His body was dismantled and dragged through the streets. Father called me home to put him to rest, and to offer my aid in the hunt.”

“Short work of finding the men who did it at least.” Cullen offers. Atisha barks out a laugh.

“Hardly. I have sworn my assistance to the Inquisition. I told my father I could not stay and hunt Varien’s murderers.”

She takes a shuddering breath. It rattles past her teeth and settles unsteadily in her lungs. 

“Right now there are monsters that look like men walking free while my hahren’s body rots unevenly, and I cannot be there to avenge him. I gave my word. I promised him I would stay and make this friendship with your people work. Varien is the one who asked me to come here. And for what? I left his side, and it killed him.”

Cullen does not know what to say to her, but he lets her lean on him and cry very quietly. Even the shaking of her shoulders is gentle. Atisha falls apart so slowly and politely, like sweetbread left in tea too long. He’s seen her cry plenty. She’s a crier. Not like this. Not this unexplosive gentle sobbing. 

Later, in the din of the Chantry with a cup of tea in her hands, she will tell him everything about that man. That Varien raised her. That her father’s duties kept him so busy she knew Varien better than the man whose blood she shares. That Varien is the one who taught her to hold her magic steady and keep her wit sharp. He walked her dreams to keep demons from her when she was young. He cooked her favorite treats when she excelled in her lessons. He taught her to shoot a bow, and gut a fish, and throw a punch without breaking her wrist. All he did was give, and when he grew old and weak, she abandoned him to befriend the humans. What kind of child was she to do that to him? Cullen will not know what to tell her, but he will sit with her all the same. 

The man she describes reminds him of Greigoir. 

They have that in common at least. Kind older men filling familial roles left empty. Except, Cullen had a good father. He just walked away. He’s walked away from a lot when it was offered. Cullen wonders if becoming the Commander of the Inquisition was the first step towards learning to stay.

Or will he walk away again?

-

“Ser, you’re needed in the rotunda. There’s been a fight.” A runner declares after barging into Cullen’s office. Cullen is out of his chair before the man can finish his sentence, and moving towards the rotunda. His hand rests on the top of his sword easy. As Knight-Captain he had broken up many squabbles. This isn’t new. 

What’s new is that he hears Atisha shouting before he gets to the door. 

Angry, elven shouting. 

And interestingly enough, he hears Solas shouting right back.

When Cullen enters the rotunda the sight he sees makes him have to take a step back. The table that usually sits in the center of the room has been thrown into the wall hard enough to splinter out across the floor. Papers, paint, and shards of magical artifacts are scattered like so much refuse. And Atisha. Atisha, lips pulled back in a snarl, is sitting on Solas’s chest with her fist raised. Cullen sees blood dripping from her hand, but cannot see the damage to Solas’s face from this angle. He can see that her hair has come loose and she’s spitting to keep blood from her nose from getting into her mouth. 

He can deduce what’s happened quickly from years of experience.

Cullen is oddly impressed that she put Solas on the ground so fast. 

He rips across the room, grabs her by her shoulders, and pulls her off Solas.

“What in the name of Andraste are you two doing?” He demands. Solas is a damn bloody mess, lip split and eye swollen. It’s going to blacken nicely. There’s a good cut on his cheek from the force of the punch. Atisha looks like she got off better, with only a blooded nose and swollen lip. 

Solas props himself on his elbow, wipes the blood from his mouth with a grimace. Stays on the ground.

“Nothing that concerns you, Commander.” He says, teeth pink with bloodied saliva.

Cullen inclines his head to Atisha, squeezes her shoulder firmly. “You heard him, Cullen. It does not involve you.” She snarls.

The elves haven’t broke eye contact and seem to be raring to go for another round of whatever they’re fighting over. If he doesn’t get them away from each other he has a suspicion they’ll be putting one or the other six feet under in an hour. Atisha is easier to move. Smaller. Besides the rotunda is Solas’s space. 

“Fine. Don’t answer me. You’re both done here. You, come with me.” He tells Atisha as he snakes his other hand out to grab her upper arm, one hand on the meat of her shoulder, the other on her arm, he pushes her out of the room. She turns, spits blood, and snarls, “harallen.” as Cullen escorts her out.

He will have to have a talk with her about manners, because that certainly sounded aggressive. 

“Shem’latha” Solas says evenly back. Atisha flails against Cullen’s grip and he all but picks her up to take her out of the room.

-

“What did he call you?” Cullen asks once Atisha is calm enough to see a color that isn’t red. She’s bundled in a blanket in his office with a guard on either side of her. She glares. Cullen sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and waves for the men to leave. Once the door closes, Atisha bitterly mutters. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, I’d say it matters. Because whatever it was he said to you or called you, you bit me trying to escape to hit him. You bit me, Atisha. Nearly took a chunk out of my arm. What did he say to you to make you so mad?”

“I don’t want to tell you.” She glowers.

Cullen blinks at her. “Fine what did you call him then?”

“Harallen.” 

He sighs, leans against his desk and waves his hand. “Which means?”

“It means he is a bastard traitor who should learn to shut his mouth. Fool flat-ear thinks he can judge me when he abandoned his people.” She snarl-mutters. Cullen can’t help but be a little amused. Curled up in that blanket she looks so tiny and her anger seems so little as well. But he knows something nasty went on between them. The tips of her ears are red with rage, he notes, thinking it some kind of cute. Like when a pup tries to bite. The threat is serious. But the teeth, not so devastating. 

Atisha glowers, buries herself deeper into her blankets and mumbles.

“Shem’latha. It means Shem lover. Worse than calling someone a traitor, because a traitor could do any number of things. But that thing specifically. It’s not like he called me a thief or a murderer. It’s worse. Shem’latha means you’ve betrayed your ancestors and children. That you are corrupting the bloodline. It is the ultimate form of treason to the people.”

Atisha pulls the blanket up over her head until all he can see are a pair of slightly glowing eyes. 

“The worst part is he isn’t wrong. I am a shem’latha. In a sense. I’ve never acted on. Not for lack of wanting to.” She says sounding very defeated.

“You ruined a man’s face because he commented on your friendship with other people?” He’s got to get this straight for the report.

“No. I broke that bastard’s nose because he accused me of polluting the bloodline.”

“Come again?”

“I was accused of sleeping with shemlen, humans. More so, he was accusing me of intention to bear a thin-blood. Me. The daughter of Elgar’nan. A shem’latha. It is more than a disgrace. If my father heard it, I’d be placed under house arrest for life at best, executed at worst. So, yes, I ruined a man’s face over the fact that he commented on my private life in such a way that could prove deadly. It’s elven politics. I don’t expect you to understand. Just know that if I hadn’t hit him it would be admitting guilt, and he would have the right to tell others. I contested it and won. So it doesn’t matter if he was right or not, he’s honor bound to keep his mouth shut.”

It is all a very serious topic coming from a very silly pile of blankets. 

But he understands. It would be like the Queen of Fereldan bearing a qunari child, not that he knows it’s possible, but it’s an example. And her hitting him. It’s a duel. She won the duel. It doesn’t matter if he was right or wrong, because the duel decided. Elven politics are surprisingly not that hard to grasp, he thinks. But there is one thing he doesn’t understand.

“Off the record, you could be potentially executed for any perceived romantic interest in humans is what I am understanding, right?”

She pops her head out of the blanket, hair static-y. “Correct.”

Cullen nods sagely. He feels like he’s going to scream. Human women are complicated enough. This elf is going to make his heart give out with her confusing ways. He’s not that young a man anymore. It’s entirely possible. Maybe a vein will explode from stress and he’ll perish here and now. He takes a breath, and asks the question that has been unasked the whole time.

“So, why in Andraste’s name would you sit next to me in that Chantry and tell me you want me? I’m just trying to understand. Are you suicidal?”

“Suicidal? No. Honest? Yes. Look fine, I’m a shem’latha I know that you know that we both know that. Doesn’t mean my people need to know that. Surely there are things about yourself you don’t tell your people, because they do not need to know.”

He supposes he can agree with that. Atisha kicks her feet and glowers, hands wrapped tight in the blanket. 

“So for my report. You and Solas entered into an argument do to a comment made on your private love life, and it escalated. You called him nasty things he called you nasty things and I broke it up. Sound about accurate?”

She nods.

“Good. Don’t get into fights again. If anyone says anything you inform me and I will have it dealt with. There’s enough conflict in this world already.”

-

A knock on her door early into the morning has Atisha stumbling out of bed and shrugging on the closest robe. A blush organza, airy and light. Her eyes are blurry with sleep, and judging by the pale purple of the light slipping under the window covers, the sun isn’t fully over the mountains. She answers the door and immediately regrets grabbing this particular robe. The cold cuts through it like she’s wearing nothing. The robe was a gift from Ghilain’nain. It was designed for the summer months, light and breathable. Thick cherry trees are embroidered along the robe, the twining branches and blossoms of thread are the only thing covering her skin from visibility. Luckily, it was designed to cover anything important. It’s modest enough. If barely. Besides, it’s one of her few luxuries from home she brought with her.

“Cullen, I swear to the Creators I am going to kill you. The sun isn’t even up. There’s still frost on the ground.” Atisha mumble complains at him as he shoulders past her with a leather file of papers. 

“It isn’t that early. We live in the mountains, there’s always frost. A runner just came in with something for you.”

Atisha closes the door and glares at him. Cullen pointedly avoids looking at her and instead sets the papers on the desk and puts his hand over his eyes. He’s interrupted her sleep enough to know that thing she calls a morning robe is little more than a few threads preserving her modesty.

“Maker’s Breath would it kill you to sleep in clothes?”

“Would it kill you to let me sleep?” She replies as she walks to the back of her quarters and grabs a pair of trousers and a shirt. There’s a lovely partition that was gifted to her by some Orlesian lord who wanted to marry her. She declined the offer but kept the partition. It’s come in handy since the Commander wakes before the damn sun itself does and wants to converse before birds are even up to sing.

“If I let you sleep we’d only see you at dusk, Atisha.”

She grunts in response. He can hear the rustle of fabric as she dresses. 

“What is it this time? Your men forget how to get home again?”

“One time and you never let me live it down.” He replies. “This is important. How long does it take to put a shirt on?”

“Cullen, when you have gold bars embedded in your nipples we can talk about how swiftly you pull fabric over them.” 

He feels himself flush. He did not need that mental image. Nor that knowledge. Atisha emerges a moment later, smoothing the hem of her shirt. He clears his throat and thinks of things that aren’t her nipples. 

“Alright, what’s so pressing?” 

He pulls papers from the folder and spreads them across her desk. Business. He’s here for business.

“Multiple Inquisition scouts and soldiers have been found murdered in camps and keeps. Leliana placed spies in every settlement to try and find the source of the killings, but we haven’t found it yet. Here’s where it gets strange. All the dead are elves.”

Atisha looks over the list of the dead. All of them had been found to be serving the Wolf. All of them died on her orders. The Inquisition cannot know this. It is what she is here for. Get their forces, weaken the traitor.

“And this pertains to me how? None of these are my men, Cullen.”

“On one of our soldiers we found a note. It’s odd. The note reads ‘bleed the sun’. Leliana believes that soldier was a double agent send to harm you. That man was found dead in Skyhold this morning outside the kitchens. He had poisons on him.”

Ah. The Wolf knows she’s here. And he’s getting sloppy. Or maybe not, maybe this was planted here to draw her attention. She wishes Varien were here. She needs his wisdom and guidance. He always knew what to do. 

“I see. This would not be the first time someone made an attempt on my life. I appreciate you bringing this to my attention.”

“There’s one more thing.”

She looks up at him. Cullen looks very awkward all the sudden, shifts his weight and taps his fingers on the table. 

“Cullen, what’s wrong?” He looks very pale and very nervous. There’s a bit of sweat on his brow. He clears his throat and swallows deep. “I am taking your guest quarters until this is sorted out.” Cullen declares with a bit too much bravado. 

“I’m going to need you to explain that. I’m not quite awake yet. It sounded like you said you’re staying with me over a threat that’s been thwarted.”

He begins scooping up the papers and organizing them. “Yes, well, that’s the issue. We don’t know the extent of this threat. There’s been many agents popping up dead simply because they’re elves. Originally we thought of sending you back to the Dales. But that simply puts you out of reach should something happen, and we cannot risk your men leaving too. Your soldiers bolster our forces considerably. So then, I suggested a personal guard. But how do we guarantee that guard isn’t corrupt?”

“So it has to be you.”

“It has to be me.”

Atisha sighs. This is going to make it harder to give her men orders to root out the Wolf considerably. That should be her priority. But part of her is giddy. She likes this man. She more than likes this man with his soft smiles and snorts and chuckles. She wouldn’t mind at all seeing more of him. What little she sees him is between his work for little snippets of time. This will be different.

“Creators, I hope you don’t snore.” She teases. His hand flutters to the back of his neck and he flushes just a little. “Not too terribly I’ve been told.” He replies. 

-

He does snore. Horribly. The guest quarters are their own little room with a little door and everything. No wonder he sleeps out in that tower. Atisha is amazed he wasn’t suffocated by his bunkmate’s pillow when he was a templar. This whole arrangement is kind of the Inquisition. But she knows better. Leliana is no fool. She must have a report somewhere implication a Dusk Warrior in one of these murders. Putting Cullen here helps to keep an eye on Atisha in two ways. 

Maybe they’re trying to kill her slowly via sleep deprivation.

She quickly learns that Cullen’s snoring doesn’t last long, because the man usually wakes from night terrors then putters around the room awake the rest of the night.

After the fourth night of listening to him skitter about, Atisha knocks on the door.

“Care for a drink? Josephine sent me a bottle of spiced Antivan wine I’ve yet to break into.”

“Give me a moment.”

To compose himself goes unsaid.

About five minutes later he emerges from the guest quarters and does an impressive job not stumbling out. Atisha has grabbed a couple clean mugs from her tea set, the bottle, and some pillows tossed haphazardly on the ground. She’s sitting on one of said pillow and gestures to another. Cullen sits across from her and gladly accepts the tea cup of wine. The cup is warm in his hand surprising him. Atisha shrugs. “Mixed it with some tea. Figured it would help wake you better.”

“I do a fine job waking myself.” He mutters as he sips the wine. 

“You know, Cullen, you can ask me to keep you asleep. I’m more than trained in domestic magic. And my trainer was a dream walker, I can help if you want.”

“No I don’t want that.” 

They drink. The wine is bold and robust, the flavors are deep and the spices sing on her tongue. The tea she chose blends perfectly, a clove black tea. Atisha hates how much she loves this. Sitting with him in the middle of the night sharing a drink like it’s normal. This is the closest she’s felt to him since that night in the Chantry. Maybe there’s something about candlelight, but she always feels more herself this time of day. There’s something about darkness that gives her the confidence to be herself. Maybe it’s because it feels like her father isn’t watching if there’s no sunlight. She refills both their cups once they finish them and finds herself smiling. 

“Tell me something.” Cullen says.

“Anything for you.” She replies with a wink. 

Cullen smiles for a moment.

“Why you? Why are your people so interested in the Inquisition?”

“Cullen, that is a question I wish I could answer for you. As far as I can tell you, the Inquisition is a force to be reckoned with. Your organization wields old and powerful magic, and this interests the Dales greatly. We hope that by providing assistance, and by keeping a watchful eye on the Inquisition, that magic will only be used to benefit all of the world.”

He scoffs. She watches him rest his arm on his knee, tea mug dangling from his fingers precariously. 

“That’s the official answer. Why’d you come specifically? Why not some dignitary like every other country hounding us for favor?”

“My father trusted me to enact his will better than any servant could. Who better to look out for her people than their heiress? Who better to understand old magic? To want balance? That, and I volunteered. I was eager to serve. I wanted to prove that I was ready to be an Ascendant.”

He hums. She sips her wine. It isn’t a lie. She had wanted to serve. She had wanted to excel and be the next sun god. Now, all she wants is this man in front of her to stay by her side. It’s pathetic really, how far she’s fallen.

“Ah, so you’ll go back one day to be promoted.” He understands that well. The desire to serve and rise above his station drove him for years. The need to help people. To have the power to help people. He admires that. 

She looks at him, gold eyes deep and dark and boring into him.

“No, Cullen, I am not going back. I cannot go back to that life any longer. I am no longer the woman they knew.”

“What changed?” He asks.

Atisha lays back on the floor, hair splaying out like a fan around her head. Her hands fold over her stomach rising and falling with her breathing. 

“Before I came to the Inquisition I loved only The People. Truly, I did not care what became of the other countries of this world, if only my people and my home was standing at the end. I was known for that. And I still love my people like that. But now I cannot say I only love them.”

She rolls over onto her side, props her head on her hand elbow planted on the ground. 

“You told me once you were from Honnleah. I’d never heard of it. I scoured every map and never found it. So, I sent men to find it, and they did. Houses in disarray, fields untended. It’s silly but when I read their report it broke my heart, Cullen. I came here to save my home, and to find out your home was so damaged? I don’t know why I did it but I ordered my men to make the repairs. Re-sow the fields. Heal the sick. Feed the poor. What a waste of good soldiers. Do you understand? I no longer love only my people. I cannot go back.”

Mia had wrote to him that a bunch of elves had passed through and made repairs. He had assumed they were Inquisition. Foolish of him. Atisha flops back over, hand hitting the ground a bit roughly as she stares as the ceiling. 

“Can I ask you something now?”

“Yes.”

“Did you want me to go back to the Dales one day?”

Cullen does not hesitate.

“No.”

Atisha laughs. 

“Would you have been sad if I left?”

Cullen sets his cup down and leans back on his hands.

“I think a part of me would have been devastated if I’m telling the truth.”

He can see the candlelight bounce off her grin. 

“You know what? I think I would have been very sad too.” She tells him.

-

Everyone leaves for Adamant except her. Not everyone returns. Atisha sends her men to die, and she stays safe in the castle. Not because she wanted to hide. But because he begged her not to come out and fight. ‘I won’t lose you to a war you shouldn’t fight’ he had said, and made her swear. And she swore. 

Her father is war. She knows the look. She sees her father’s curse in Cullen’s sun-born weary autumn eyes when he returns from Adamant. It is one thing to see darkness. It is another to see true war. 

When he sees her, when he walks straight to her quarters after Adamant, Cullen lets himself in, finds her at her desk, wraps his arms around her and does not let go for a long time. His knees hit the ground, head resting against her stomach. He reeks of death, and sweat, and blood. The man’s armor is dented and scorched and stained. Untended. Curls matted and strawberry streaked, stained. Atisha takes his weight. It isn’t easy. But she commands force magic and reinforces her bones and holds him. 

“Do you still wait?” He had asked pressed against her stomach as he was, arms twined around her like he was a boat and she was a dock. Atisha’s fingers were untangling his curls, a Dalish tune stuck in her throat. He had the look of a man who had seen too much. “Cullen, you know what my answer has always been.” She had told him, hands searching for the buckle to his chest plate. 

Atisha knew armor. She knew fire and pain and suffering. And she knew he needed out of the shell. Creators, he had sobbed. She stripped away the broken metal, unwrapped him from his soldier’s garb, and he had gripped her tighter and broke. All the pain this man had endured, all the sorrow, all of it broke under how gentle her hands had been. 

Later, she will trust this man enough to tell him what haunts her. Later, he will trust her the same. 

For now it’s good enough that he has come to her in his hour of need, and she will not turn him away.

Not when this is what she has wanted.


	2. Chapter 2

The Commander of the Inquisition moves into Princess Atisha Sabrae’s quarters a few months after Adamant. 

It is a political shitshow. 

Inquisitor Lavellan protests it vehemently but cannot bring forth any real reason why it should not happen. Word is sent to the Dales, and new warriors are sent. Warrior who dress in grey and black, Silencers and Shadows Atisha calls them. Josephine is beside herself trying to figure out how to explain this to the many, many Orlesian ladies who had an eye on the Commander.

This pleases Atisha immensely. 

In the chaos, the elimination of agents of the Wolf is easier. The pack makes itself known in those shouting the loudest. Nehris knows she is in the Sun’s rays now. 

More so, the human she is very, very fond of, has decided that he is also very, very fond of her.

Check and mate Uncle, she thinks. 

Atisha is very wrong. 

Her human paramour begins to show a vested interest in her people. He begins to study in what free time he has. The lovely marble chess board he adores is put up on a shelf to collect dust, and it is replaced with studies by Genitivi on her people. He asks questions. Too many questions.

If Atisha has learned anything about Cullen in the past months, it is that he is sharp of mind and has a dedicated heart. When she inquired as to why he has such an interest in her people, he tells her he wants to find a way to change the view on their relationship. A noble cause. And a lie. It frightens her greatly that he lies to her so easily. 

When he finds one of her own, a Dusk Warrior, knelt over the body of a murdered Inquisition soldier with bloodied hands and weapons, Cullen is rightfully furious. He lies in his report. Lets the Dalish soldier go. 

Atisha has never seen him red with rage.

Red with embarrassment, or because he feels sweet, or with cold, or lyrium illness, or exertion. 

Not rage. 

It startles her to return to their shared space and find such anger. 

“Explain to me, Lady First, why one of your wonderfully trained soldiers was found murdering one of my own.”

He had demanded. She has thought of Cullen as many things. Warm honey, autumn sunlight, brave and kind and strong, brilliant. She had never seen the man who got him here. The one he buries. 

This Cullen is stone. Cold, sharp, and stone.

Creators, she looks at him and sees him finally for what he is. He is the afterbirth of genocide. The vow to never let atrocities claim the world again. But by Falon’din, his hands have known death. How did she miss then when she held them? How did she convince herself she was the most dangerous thing between them? The lines on his face were hard, his jaw hard, everything about him was walls and armor. 

“What did you see?”

The wrong thing to say, she learns quickly when a chair goes flying past her.

Cullen draws in a shuddering breath that rips the air from her own lungs. His hands tremble. Atisha is not afraid of this man. She knows she isn’t. But her mouth still tastes like metal and her veins quicken in reaction. She is not frightened, she tells herself. It has to be true. She has seen her father angrier. She did not flinch under the Sun’s Wrath. So why do her knees feel so weak? Atisha draws all her courage together like a spell, sends a prayer to Sylaise to let her keep her home steady, and dares to speak.

“Cullen, I can’t help explain if you don’t tell me what happened.”

Reasoning with a man this angry is never a smart idea. Atisha has never claimed to be smart when it comes to Cullen Rutherford. He snorts, stalks forward. She has to crane her neck to meet his eyes. This man has always stood three heads taller than her, she just never really noticed. Well. She noticed. In different regards. Atisha knew he was broad, and tall, and strong. It is one thing to admire it from a safe distance. It is another when it is turned on her. 

“I am not here to give explanations. You will tell me why your men are killing Inquisition troops, and you will tell me now so help me.” 

His voice is steel to stone. He doesn’t touch her. Does not dare to cross that line, she thinks. But he is so close she can taste the polish he uses to tend his breastplate on the back of her tongue. She can smell the remnants of his shaving soaps. He is hot with anger and it rolls off of him in waves. She must take too long to focus. Must take too long to think of an answer, because he bears down on her. 

“Answer me.” Cullen demands.

Oh, Dirthamen preserve her, she cannot lie to him.

May her people forgive her. 

“They were double agents.”

Her voice is meek and shudders. Cullen is not impressed. His face is stoic, unmoving. Is this the man who kept the Gallows of Kirkwall under such steady rule? Is this the man who did not lead, but controlled? He does not hit her, but his nose scrunches with disgust. His lip pulls up into a scowl contorting his scar into something ugly and unkind. 

Atisha has never thought him unkind. Sometimes ignorant to her ways, but not unkind. 

“You’d best keep talking, Lady First, before I have you arrested for conspiracy.” He tells her, and there is a glimmer behind the darkness of his eyes. He is giving her a chance. Should she go to the cells she will surely go to the block. Nehris is already looking for any reason to remove Atisha from the Inquisition. And this human. This man she has foolishly chosen to care for is giving her an out. He will not accept anything less than the truth, though. And the truth will surely see her just as dead. 

Atisha had planned to be Ascendant, and eventually take the mantle of the title Elgar’nan. She had been carefully bred and trained to contain the powerful spirit that was the All-Father. She was ready to prove herself. She was ready to let her father rest. 

She did not come here to die.

She came her for her people. She came here to protect her kingdom from the Wolf’s Chosen.

She was sent here to win this man. She failed. If she is going to die, she will at least plant doubt in her wake. That will be her burial seed.

“They do not serve the Inquisition, Cullen.” She begins tentatively. He clearly thinks she is lying, but waves his hand for her to continue. Atisha wishes she felt confident telling him this. She was going to, eventually, when she felt he loved her more. When she felt he was loyal to her. He isn’t though, she knows that. Though it will hurt, he will choose duty every time. She should have realized that a long time ago. “I, this is hard to explain because you are not Dalish, but you know of the Dread Wolf Fen’harel?”

He nods, slow, calculated, almost threatening.

“The Anchor on your Inquisitor, it is his magic. When my people discovered the traitor had chosen to re-emerge we feared what he was planning. He has tried to destroy the world once, what if he was back to do it properly? We had to be sure, Cullen. We couldn’t leave this to chance. I was sent to ensure that the Wolf was not involved himself, and I do believe he isn’t among the Inquisition. But his agents are. And there is a woman with his mark. The agents that have been killed, all of them are double agents, I swear it. We have the same interests in mind. We both want the world to survive. Please, believe me.”

Atisha feels very numb and sluggish as she says it. As she watches the annoyance in his eyes grow. 

He looks at her as if she is daft. She must sound mad. This man doesn’t believe her people to be Gods. He thinks them simply powerful mages. He believes in one god only. Atisha was once taught that the children of gods do not beg. But she finds herself closer and closer to full borne pleading as he regards her. He looks at her so coldly, so distantly, as if she is not a person but simply an animal. 

It is minutes. Agonizing nerve wracking minutes. He simply beholds her, looks over her, stares through her. It is like he is dissecting her mentally. Atisha feels pallor and faint at the look in his, still beautiful even when they are dark with harshness, eyes. Then very slowly, in a very deep timbre, Cullen speaks.

“I trained that recruit myself.”

Oh Creators, he was going to kill her. She was going to die here, away from home, and they would burn her and toss the charred bones aside like it was nothing. No man could look at someone like that and not mean to dismantle them piece by piece. And somehow, this is the same man who taught her chess. The same man who shared spiced wine with her at night. Atisha supposes this is a lesson. Like Varien said, the loveliest of things are the most deadly. 

“He was so eager to complete his training. So eager to rise in rank. It isn’t unusual, that kind of devotion. But he had been late to his post too often recently. Leliana was investigating. She sent me to see if he would be late again, and sure enough, he was.”

Why is he telling her this? It is cruel. He should get it over with. She can see his hand wrapped around the hilt of his blade. She knows she will be on the sharp end of it. But he sounds so thoughtful, so considerate, still tangled in anger. 

“And when I go to search for him, I find your man with a blade in his throat. And you tell me you knew this man was betraying us and said nothing? All the men who have died, all the elves who were murdered, they were all at one point or another caught shirking duties. Sometimes late, sometimes they wandered from their post. All killed. For months we have been investigating, trying to figure out who knew these agents were turn-coats and how, and found nothing. Bull even said he knew nothing. We have thought there was something far worse at play. You need to explain this to Leliana.”

“She will have me killed.”

“It will likely be her first response, yes.”

It shouldn’t surprise her the ease he says it with. It still hurts. So, she says the unsaid.

“Cullen, you do not understand. I know that the agents are here. They know that I am here. But if evidence comes to light, and I am killed, the Dales will march.”

The threat of a war with a powerful country does not seem to faze him. 

“Someone must take responsibility for the murder of forty three Inquisition warriors, scouts, and agents.”

He’s right. She knows he’s right. If the investigation is not laid to rest it will lead to more discontent. But nothing says it has to be her. He isn’t even saying it has to be her. Atisha meets his eyes, and there it is, that little glimmer under the hard demeanor. He’s giving her a chance, and she needs to take it.

“Samson.”

She breathes. He slowly nods. 

“How?”

Oh he’s brilliant and wonderful and frightening. He’s going to let her do this. He’s going to let her re-tell it and be smart and live. 

“My men have discovered elven soldiers under his command. Elves cannot be templars, and the venatori have laid claim to dwarves as slaves, so he has uncorrupted elves spying on the Inquisition. That way he can smuggle his red lyrium better. He did it to learn our routes.”

Cullen’s scowl starts to melt, if only a little. “Crude, but if the evidence can be planted on the next few murders, it will do.” Atisha could kiss this man right now, if he wasn’t still bristling with rage. Okay she can do that. She can have her people do that. This can be easy.

It can be easy.

“Atisha. Do not ask me to lie for you again. Do not be this sloppy again. I don’t care for your people’s politics or your accusations against the Inquisitor, but if there are double agents, fine remove them. Do not be careless next time. I will be watching, and you will report every agent you remove to me personally. Understand?”

She reaches out, rests her hand on his breastplate nervously. He does not push her away. This is a good sign. His armor is hot from his anger. She deserves that. 

“I understand, Cullen.”

“Good.”

“Thank you for believing in me.” She tells him.

“I don’t. I’m just too selfish to let them have you.” He replies.

Ah. That makes things more clear. He does care about her in his own way, but does not want it to effect his duties to the Inquisition. She wonders if he will grow to resent her for making him lie like this. It doesn’t matter though, because he still comes to bed that night, stiff with anger, but comes back to her. 

All wounds take time.


	3. Chapter 3

After Adamant it is alarmingly clear that the Inquisition’s soldiers do not have sufficient training against mages of any talent. Of course their Commander has done his best to theoretically prepare them for such. Cullen has taught them all the stances, all the ways to angle their shields to keep fire from splashing into their faces, but soldiers retain only what they practice. In the heat of the moment, they fall back to the skills they have always employed. The skills to fight normal armored men. 

It is a problem. 

The Inquisitor is a busy woman, and she does not have the time or resources to spare to retrain soldiers against mages. 

That is the duty of their Commander.

So, Cullen goes to Atisha. Many of her Dusk Warriors are talented mages. He asks her to spare a few decent men to help him train. Inquisition troops will never be sufficient against magic unless they train against it. The mages they practice with must be incredibly disciplined to keep from accidentally killing. Magic is dangerous. She is happy to give him the men. She is happy to make Cullen’s life less stressful.

Atisha does him one better.

She is a mage of talent.

She spares five men and herself to his training regiment. 

The training is brutal. The men’s fingers blacken with cold, their hair stands with lightning, they are pepper in bruises and burns. All of which, the mages quickly repair, then drill again. It is like a kind of torture. It is effective. Soon, the men angle their shields properly, they learn to make themselves smaller targets, when ice chills their blade, they learn to use to to their advantage. 

Atisha is impressed with the swiftness these men learn. 

Cullen is horrified to find that the woman he is sleeping with is far more devastating than he ever imagined. 

Atisha flicks her fingers and fireballs are summoned, she twists her wrist and lightning strikes, she yawns and ice clings to her breath. This training is nothing to her. She, and her men, barely exert themselves. When he asks what kind of training gave them such raw power, Atisha laughs. “It is not training, Cullen, it is blood. We are Elvhen. Magic flows in us.” 

He has never thought of it that way. Cullen has heard the old fairy tales of elves being magically more talented than any other race. But he has never seen it to be true in all his years, and he has seen a lot of magic. But here it is, glaringly obvious. When Atisha told him she was bred for magic, he had thought it a silly claim like when the magisters claims such things. Now, he thinks not. 

She can fade step with barely a twitch of her legs. 

It is frightening. 

He suddenly feels very foolish asking this woman to stay behind. He had worried that she would not be able to handle herself. Atisha could have broken down the walls to Adamant on her own, he thinks.

But when the Inquisition reports pour in that their soldiers fight venatori with devastating force, he cannot bring himself to think poorly of this training. Not one causality in the advanced troops. Cullen thinks he should have asked Atisha to help train sooner. After all, she is here as a military agent. She has proven to be more than strategically sound. Elimination of secret double agents behind his back aside, Cullen cannot think of a single viable reason why Atisha should not be more involved with the troops. Especially with the resources the Dales have offered. Sure, they aren’t Andrastian. They aren’t here because they think the Inquisitor is divinely chosen by the Maker. Their blades are sharp all the same. Maker knows, he needs sharp trained blades.

He is impressed with her. He is impressed with her magical prowess and her control. Even Cassandra could not adequately determine whether Atisha was in fact a mage or not when the woman first arrived. It speaks novels as to Atisha’s training. Cullen has never met a mage with such ferocious power, and such stability. He credits this to her extraordinary training, to her role among her people. Then, he realizes he knows next to nothing about what that role was.

“Atisha,” He murmurs to her her one morning before the sun has begun to crest. She is awake, he can tell by her breathing. “What exactly does being an Ascendant mean?” She rolls over, throws one dappled arm over his chest. Her hands easily find the knot of scars along his waist, nails lightly tracing along them. She had stared at him, cat gold eyes glimmering in the low light. “An Ascendant is a First who has begun the process of taking the mantle of their chosen god.” She tells him, voice low and thick with sleep. 

“But what does that entail?” 

She had propped herself on her arm to look over him, her hair a curtain of fire. 

“Cullen, that is a question I cannot answer, and you would not want to know.”

Her voice was kind, lilting. He knows she means to be gentle with him. She means to not frighten him with ways strange to him. He does not appreciate being coddled. He takes her hand in his all the same and pulls her atop him, lets her rest her pointed ear to his chest and listen to the song inside. 

“I would like to know.” He tells her. It is honest. It makes her heart keen with how honest it is. So, she will be honest. “You would not be near me like this if I told you. I would prefer to not tell you.” He finds the dimple on her lower back with his thumb and ghosts over it. “Try me.” Atisha hums, returns his touch with her own nails running through the layer of wiry gold on his chest. “No, really, it would ruin this and I rather like this, don’t you?” Atisha insists, pressing herself flush to him to emphasize. 

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t like this, whatever it is, that they’ve fallen into. He likes sleeping next to someone warm and caring, and when he jolts awake, he likes that she presses cool fingers to his temple and soothes him. He likes that she helps organize his paperwork, and offer insight to strategies. He likes that Atisha clasps his cloak around his shoulders for him and always kisses the same spot under his chin when he leaves for war table meetings. He likes this a lot. He likes her a lot. She’s smart, and impressive, and kind to him. She sees him as more than the Knight-Captain. She sees him as more than the Commander. To her, he’s just Cullen. Cullen, who she cared about enough, to help his hometown. 

He doubts anything she says will really put him off.

Unless she’s suddenly signed away her body to a demon, that is. That would be a deal breaker.

“Tell me.” He murmurs into her hair. “I want to know about you.”

And Creators, Atisha is not strong enough to say no to that. Even if she knows better. 

“The First of a god is usually chosen based on breeding and magical capability.” She begins, rolling over to look at the ceiling. “That First is then trained for years, sometimes many sometimes few, until they are deemed capable. A capable First who has proven themselves can then begin Ascendancy. Our gods have had many faces over the years, and being so powerful, well the body is not designed to contain that power. Gods have a shorter life. What makes a Dalish god divine is not their magic, or their bloodline, it is the god themselves. Becoming an Ascendant means I would begin to absorb Elgar’nan.”

Cullen does not enjoy the sound of this already. It remind him of templars taking lyrium, of grey wardens, a terrible cost to abilities. But something doesn’t sit right with him. 

“What do you mean by ‘absorb Elgar’nan’?” He asks. 

She wriggles uncomfortably, thinking carefully on the best way to word this. 

“I need you to listen to me very carefully and to not make assumptions of your own.” She says. 

This is going to be bad. He is going to hate this and she knows it. 

“All of our gods walked this world once in their true forms. Then, Fen’harel destroyed the world and a great calamity rended them from their bodies. But the people need their gods, Cullen. They guide us. And so, those who were of great devotion and great power went to the gods, and offered them what they did not have.”

“Atisha I don’t like where this is going.” He says. Because he feels sick, because he is smart enough to know where this is going, but fool enough to hope he is wrong. Her eyes flash. 

“Please, just listen. Our gods had suffered greatly and been weakened considerably, and still possessed great power. They were as spirits. Stuck wandering and wailing and crying out to help their people. They just did not have the means to do it. And so, their high priests, their loyal and strong, made a great sacrifice to help the people. They gave the gods bodies.”

Cullen shifts away from her hard and sudden. It does not surprise her. His stomach churns, his mouth tastes bitter. Atisha is not disappointed by this. She should be, but she isn’t. 

“Are you saying your country is ruled by, by abominations?” He asks in sheer disbelief. He is to his feet very quickly. Atisha stays in bed and sighs. She knew he would see it this way. His world is still so black and white, even if he is trying very hard to learn the shades of gray. 

“No. An abomination implies twisted consent. It implies an impure entity destroying the mind and body of the host. My father has always retained himself. It is more like, ah more like a little voice. They help. They guide. They tell you what to do. Sometimes the gods come out more, and there is a stronger presence, but mostly they slumber and grant us strength and wisdom. We just carry them.” Atisha explains gently.

“And how do you know they are the little voice? How do you know that’s your father? I’ve seen possession, Atisha. It can be convincing.” He remembers Wilmod. He remembers the demons in the boys in the barracks. He remembers Kinloch. It all chills his blood. 

She sits up, gives him a funny look like he’s overreacting. She just told him she was raised by abominations, possibly demons, and he’s the one who is overreacting. Then, in a very quiet voice, she says to him.

“Does it really matter if it is him?”

Atisha is insane, he has decided. Insane and powerful and kind and very, very sad when she says that to him. What she means is, how could it matter? The man was her father all the same. Demon or no demon. Cullen supposes it was a cruel thing to say. But still. She came here to prove that she was worthy of being possessed, that sits foul in his stomach. Had he been a younger man, he thinks he would be yelling at her now. Had he been the man he was years ago, he would have likely run her through. A mage raised by an abomination. He’d have killed her without a thought. The thought of it makes him shudder. He is not that man any longer.

He is a smarter man, a wiser man, he will listen and learn before he makes any move.

Then, she laughs a little. 

“I suppose it is one of those things you couldn’t understand. It must seem rather wrong to you. But to me consuming lyrium is that kind of wrong. Differences. It doesn’t matter, Cullen. I cannot be Ascendant now, even if I wanted to. No, Father will likely have to train my sister for it now. It was all for nothing.”

Atisha flops back onto the bed, laughs a bit more. Wipes her eyes. She’s crying a little too. 

“If you came here for that, and cannot become that any longer, why are you still here?” He asks. She ignores him and asks her own question. 

“Did you ever want to be the Commander of an army?” Cullen slowly finds his way back to the bed and sits on the edge. “Truthfully? I never saw myself leaving Fereldan. Why?” She curls around him. He is stiff and nervous. This does not surprise her. He must think her possessed at worst. Insane at best. “When I was chosen as First it was the greatest honor. I have dreamed of Ascension since I was but a little girl, and here I am, throwing it all away to bed a human who always thought he would be a templar. It’s all a bit silly isn’t it?” 

And when she words it like that.

He laughs a dry laugh.

“Right. I forget. This is all illegal back home for you. Legal to be possessed, illegal to bed someone of a different race. Maker, your people are odd.”

“You’re just as odd. You really drank lyrium, lyrium, for over a decade? It’s a wonder you humans haven’t killed yourselves off yet.”

He grunts, she hums.

“Cullen, I’m not going to go back. I can’t go back. But that does not mean I will not keep fighting for my country. Any agents of the Wolf must die, you know now how dangerous he is, don’t you?”

When she puts it like that. There’s a bunch of ancient demons, spirits he corrects himself, ancient spirits running around in powerful mages with the knowledge of those ages past fighting for power. Yes, that is a concern. And with the hole in the world? How powerful would such an entity be? The abominations they have seen so far have been super charged by the breach. They already have one would-be god destroying the world. He cannot imagine a war between many. 

“I can’t think of anyone more fit to take on such a beast.” He tells her honestly, fondly, remembering how she mopped the floor with his men. Atisha beams, presses a kiss into the back of his hip. “I can’t think of any man more suited to help me hunt down such a creature.” She tells him. “But Corypheus first.” Atisha says. “Corypheus first.” Cullen echoes in agreement. 

“Besides,” She murmurs into his skin. “I don’t want to risk losing how I feel about you.”

That shouldn’t make him feel so warm, but it does. 

“By the Maker, you are a strange woman, Atisha.”

“And you a stranger man.”


End file.
